


Stay Cool

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:02:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grif is silent for a moment, and it's unusual enough that Simmons feels a shred of concern. Maybe Grif's actually overheated and has passed out inside his armour. How the hell would he be able to tell, anyway? It's not like he isn’t used to Grif going quiet and unresponsive, given the frequency with which he takes advantage of his visor’s opacity in order to take naps. His worry is short-lived though, since Grif apparently can't quit his bitching for longer than five seconds. "Jesus fuck, it's too fucking hot. How the hell is everyone else okay?"</p><p>'Any relief Simmons feels that his teammate hasn’t succumbed to heat stroke is quashed by the fact that Grif’s behaving like a computer ai whose voice track has been looped. Irritably, he shrugs. "Well, the armour is meant to regulate our internal temperature."</p><p>"Just my luck i get the armour with the busted a/c," Grif mutters bitterly.</p><p>"Yeah," Simmons snorts derisively, flipping over a page. "I'm sure it being broken has nothing to do with you never performing basic maintenance on it, or doing stupid things like banging it into crap."'</p><p>Or, Grif's too hot, and he needs Simmons to take his clothes off. No, really. He needs him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Cool

"It's still so fucking hot."

"Thanks for the update, but we’re in the middle of the desert so don’t take it personally if I'm not surprised by this news." Simmons doesn't look up from the jeep's manual as his orange-armoured team mate lets out a low whine and slumps down beside him in the miniscule patch of shade that the Warthog offers. He sighs, irritated and anticipating further disruption to his quiet reading time. It's not like the manual is the most thrilling reading material ever, but it's also not like he’s got a wide selection of reading material to choose from out here, and if it's a choice between reading up on how to diagnose engine trouble by ear or listening to Grif whine, he'll pick the manual anyday. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like Grif’s giving him that choice.

"I feel like I'm gonna die," Grif announces to the desert at large. He sounds genuinely miserable. Simmons tries to ignore him and keep reading, but the constant groaning is really becoming distracting.

"Look, you’re too hot. I get it,” Simmons says, reasonably, “but there’s nothing I can do about it." He tries to remain reasonable as he continues, "We’re out here because Sarge _says_ that Red command _says_ maybe there _might_ be something worth investigating out here, and even though that’s _obviously_ complete and total bullshit since there’s nothing here but sand, _and,_ as we know, any and all orders from Red command are about as helpful and informative as talking to a Spanish-speaking robot, despite all of that, Sarge is still going to spend the next whoever knows how long standing around and waiting for something to happen or something to turn up, even though we have no idea what it is we’re meant to be looking for!” Simmons pauses to take a deep, calming breath, then once he’s quietly repressed all rage at the incompetence of their superiors, continues in a more even voice, “so how about instead of whining aloud, you just… conserve your saliva and shut up.”

Unsurprisingly, Grif doesn’t respond to this reasoned response, and instead just continues to groan, heedless of all the valuable body fluids he’s wasting. In fact, he even escalates things, throwing his helmeted head back against the jeep to bang repeatedly, moving this incidence from a 4.0 on the annoyance factor to a solid 8. Simmons tries to wait him out, hoping that pain or boredom will eventually drive him to a stop. He tries to focus on the paragraph of text he’s been reading for the last ten minutes, but every bang that comes jolts his attention from the words.

"Grif, do you have to be so annoying?" Simmons grits out, giving in and slamming the manual down. "I get it! You're miserable, there's no need to make everyone else miserable too."

"Yeah, there really is," Grif disagrees. "I want Sarge to be as fucking unhappy as I am, then maybe we can give up and go home."

"Back to Blood Gulch?" Simmons asks, injecting as much sarcasm as possible into his voice. "You mean the canyon where the sun never sets and it never falls below 26 degrees."

"26 degrees? That’d be fucking pleasant," Grif says, with an unamused laugh.

"Celcius," Simmons explains, rolling his eyes.

"Who the fuck uses Celcius?" Grif mutters, slumping down into the sand.

Simmons sighs, then continues. "Anyway, Sarge wouldn't turn back. He'd just shoot you and leave you for dead in the desert, and your body would probably be eaten by weird alien vultures.”

"Fucking great,” Grif says flatly.

Simmons shrugs, and reaches for the manual, thumbing through the pages until he gets to the point he'd left off at. "You know it's true."

Grif is silent for a moment, and it's unusual enough that Simmons feels a shred of concern. Maybe Grif's actually overheated and has passed out inside his armour. How the hell would he be able to tell, anyway? It's not like he isn’t used to Grif going quiet and unresponsive, given the frequency with which he takes advantage of his visor’s opacity in order to take naps. His worry is short-lived though, since Grif apparently can't quit his bitching for longer than five seconds. "Jesus fuck, it's too fucking hot. How the hell is everyone else okay?"

Any relief Simmons feels that his teammate hasn’t succumbed to heat stroke is quashed by the fact that Grif’s behaving like a computer ai whose voice track has been looped. Irritably, he shrugs. "Well, the armour is meant to regulate our internal temperature."

"Just my luck i get the armour with the busted a/c," Grif mutters bitterly.

"Yeah," Simmons snorts derisively, flipping over a page. "I'm sure it being broken has nothing to do with you never performing basic maintenance on it, or doing stupid things like banging it into crap."

"I've got better things to do with my time, Simmons," Grif says dismissively. "Like having fun.  I wouldn't expect you to know what that's like. I mean, c'mon! We're on a break, and what are you doing? Reading? What is that?"

Before Simmons can stop him, the manual is snatched out of his hands.

"Oh, dude," Grif says, shaking his head in disbelief as he reads the cover. "Are you serious? The nerd jokes make themselves at this point."

"What? It's interesting. Sort of," Simmons says defensively. "And y'know." He flushes, mumbles, "I figure it's probably a good idea to brush up on my mechanical skills."

"Why?" Grif asks curiously. "Lopez is the one who does the Warthog maintenance, and Sarge is the one who fixes Lopez if there’s anything wrong."

"Yeah, well. The Warthog and Lopez aren't the only mechanical things on Red team, are they?" Simmons snaps, grabbing the manual back. Feeling oddly defensive, he reopens the manual and lifts it in front of his face, an extra protective barrier against the gaze he can feel burning into him.

"Oh, yeah," he hears Grif say, "I forget. You're like, part robot now."

"You forgot?!" Simmons splutters in disbelief. "How the hell do you forget! You have my body parts!”

“Eh, I just forget,” Grif shrugs, like it’s not a big fucking deal that a decent chunk of what used to be Simmons’ body is now grafted onto Grif, and that those missing bits of Simmons have been replaced with cold, lifeless metal. “I mean, it’s not like we spend any time out of these fucking suits, is it?”

“Well,” Simmons says stonily, “it’s not something _I_ can just forget.” His fists clench, and he stares down at them, knowing that under the armour they’re mismatched.

“Ah stop being so melodramatic,” Grif says, shoving his shoulder. His right shoulder. The metal shoulder. Simmons has to resist the urge to pummel Grif with his cyborg arm for being such an insensitive jerk. “Lets face it, you got upgraded. I bet Sarge gave you all kinds of cool features. I just got your useless body parts.”

“If you don’t want them, I’ll have them back,” Simmons says snidely, but he forces his fingers to uncurl, pushes his hands flat against sand and lets the flash of anger fade. He snorts quietly, idly picks up a handful of sand and lets it run through his fingers. “I guess it could have been worse. I could have been the one blown up and have ended up with your shitty, fatty body parts.”

“I’d be offended, but I don’t have the energy,” Grif says, shrugging. He reaches up and presses the release seal on his helmet.

“What’re you doing?” Simmons asks, confused.

“What does it look like?” Grif says, removing the helmet and blinking at the sun. “Like I said, the a/c is broken in this thing, so it’s pretty much useless.” He puts the helmet down on the sand and starts fiddling with the clasps of his chest plate.

Simmons watches, slightly unnerved. It’s not like he’s never seen Grif out of his armour before, but he was right in saying that they do spend the majority of their time inside the armour, only taking it off at Base to sleep, and it’s odd seeing Grif’s face in the sunlight. “Useless except for, you know, stopping bullets.”

Grif huffs out a laugh at that, and it’s weird to see the facial movements that accompany the familiar sound, the way the half-smile twists his mouth. “Look around,” he says, jerking his head at the vast, empty expanse of desert, “does it look like that’s a priority right now?”

“Well, no,” Simmons concedes, feeling slightly uncomfortable as Grif discards the chestpiece and moves onto unstrapping the codpiece. “But, I mean! It’s against protocol! All soldiers are meant to remain fully armoured while in the field," he recites. 

“We’re not in the field,” Grif points out, adding the codpiece to the growing pile of armour at his side and moving onto the shinguards. “This is a desert. The sand gives it away.”

“That’s not the point,” Simmon hisses, glancing around. Sarge standing on the hill over from them, back towards them as he gazes patiently into the horizon, as if any minute now a platoon of Blue troopers are going to appear out from behind the sand dunes, while Donut is still walking around the area, searching fruitlessly for any signs that there might be some kind of artifact buried here. “You’re going to get in trouble.”

“Since when have you cared if I get in trouble?” Grif asks, tossing the last pieces of his armour onto the rest.

Simmons swallows, throat clicking. His mouth is suddenly dry. Perhaps he should have been more careful about conserving his own saliva. He feels… _uncomfortable._ Yes, that’s definitely the word for the feeling that the sight of Grif outside of his armour is inspiring in him. The black undersuits are made from a thick material, but they’re still fairly form-fitting and Grif seems unnervingly exposed, sat beside Simmons in nothing but. Simmons averts his eyes and doesn’t answer, reaching for the Warthog manual again so he’ll have something to occupy himself with.

“Ah,” Grif says, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. “That’s better.” He shuffles round suddenly, presenting his back to Simmons. “Hey, dude. Can you get the zipper for me? It’s a pain to reach on these things.”

“What?” Simmons almost chokes, voice going traitorously high-pitched. “What do you mean? You can’t get naked right now, Grif!”

“Who’s talking about getting naked?” Grif asks sounding puzzled. He twists his head to look over his shoulder at Simmons, nose scrunching up suspiciously, “Are you okay? You sound a little weird.”

“I’m fine,” Simmons says. He’s fine. Seriously. What is there to not be fine about? He’s _definitely_ not freaked out by the thought of Grif in nothing but boxers. He reaches for the zipper and starts pulling it down. Totally fine. Grif’s back appears as the material parts, and Simmons can’t help but stare at the patchwork mess of skin that’s exposed, the way that Grif’s own brown skin abruptly fuses with white skin on the left side of his body, the two contrasting colours knitted into one by a seam of thick, raised scars, paler in colour than even  the white skin. His skin. He feels oddly compelled to reach out and stroke down that ridge of scar tissue that joins the two together, and hastily lets pulls the zipper to the bottom of Grif’s back, pulling his hands back into his own lap.

“Thanks,” Grif says, moving back out of Simmons’ personal space. He slides his arms out of the sleeves and lets the top half of the suit flop around his waist. The damage that had been done to his body, and Sarge’s surgical repairs, can be seen even more clearly now. It’s… strange to say the least, to see his own body parts on another person. Grif doesn’t seem to share Simmons’ awkwardness, flopping down to lie on his back in the sand with a grateful sigh. “It’s still too hot, but at least I can’t feel my own sweat sticking the suit to me.”

“Just be careful,” Simmons cautions, looking worriedly over Grif. “I burn really easily.”

“Ugh,” Grif’s nose wrinkles up in disgust. “See what I mean? I’ve got to worry about your delicate fucking skin. I bet you don’t have to worry about shit like that.”

“No,” Simmons says sarcastically, “I just have to worry about rusting if I ever get wet. Being a cyborg is sooo great.”

“C’mon dude,” Grif shades his eyes and squints up at Simmons. “There’s got to be some advantages to being half-robot. Didn’t Sarge outfit you with anything cool like… I don’t know, knife fingers?”

Simmons shudders. “I sure hope not.” He contemplates the difficulties of living life with with knife fingers.

“Lame,” says Grif, sounding disappointed.

“Sarge did install me with my own air conditioning,” Simmons says, a little defensively. “That means, unlike you, I don’t have to rely on my suit to keep me cool.”

“What?” Grif’s eyes widen. “You mean you weren’t joking about the Freon thing? Lucky asshole.” He sounds wistful. “Wait, does that mean you’re always cool now?”

Simmons smirks, “Yeah. Cooler than you, asshole. In more ways than one.”

“Oh shut up,” Grif says dismissively, then sits up. “So…” he says, in a casual tone that Simmons has long ago learnt not to trust; its use generally precedes an unusually bad or dangerous idea from Grif. “Theoretically, you could be used as a cooling device.”

“Grif…” Simmons says warningly, “don’t even think about it, you jerk.”

“What?” Grif’s eye widen innocently. “I wasn’t thinking anything, I was just saying… you know. In case of emergency.”

“You being a little sweaty doesn’t qualify as an emergency,” Simmons says, still eyeing Grif with mistrust.

Grif’s mouth splits into a wide smirk, confirming Simmons’ doubts about his trustworthiness. “It does in my book. C’mon kiss-ass, stop hogging all your a/c.” He reaches out to grab at Simmons helmet, only to yelp as his fingers met the metal. “God fucking shit!”

“Desert, remember?” Simmons says with a smirk of his own. “Shit gets hot.”

“Cut the science bullshit,” Grif growls, sucking on his burnt fingers.

“...” Simmons looks away, uncomfortable for all kinds of reasons.

“Anyway, why won’t you just take your helmet off? You self-conscious?” Grif asks, with unusual perceptiveness. He grins as though amused, “Why? I mean, I don’t doubt you have plenty to be self-conscious about, but who’s around to care?”

“Maybe it’s not about what other people think of me,” Simmons snaps, glaring ineffectually. Removing his helmet would make it easier to do that, if nothing else. “Maybe I don’t like having to look at my freaky robot body.”

That wipes the smirk of Grif’s face, but if Simmons was expecting any sympathy from the other soldier, he’s mistaken. “Yeah? Well maybe I’m not too happy with Sarge’s needlework either,” he says, gesturing to his own two-tone torso, a bite in his words, “but you don’t see me complaining. Build a bridge and get over it, Simmons. You’re not the only freak on this team.”

Silence falls as Simmons processes Grif’s words, unsure how exactly to respond. Somehow their normal banter doesn't seem appropriate for this. Grif’s mouth twists into an unhappy grimace at Simmons' silence, and he rolls onto his side, away from Simmons. Unconsciously, his hand splays over the raised mass of scarring that bisects his torso. Sighing, Simmons reaches up and presses the seal on his helmet, then lifts it off, shaking out his flattened hair. “Jesus fuck it’s bright,” he says blinking.

“Yes, yes it is,” Grif says, sitting up. “Now get the rest of that stuff off.”

Simmons blinks at him dubiously. “Do you have to phrase it like that? I feel like I’m having a conversation with Donut.”

“What?” Grif rolls his eyes. “Aw c’mon, dude. There’s nothing weird about two guys hanging around together in their pants.”

“I don’t know,” Simmons replies, unconvinced.

“Okay, look at it this way,” Grif says, “what’s weirder? One guy in thier underwear and the other in full body gear? That somehow seems weirder.”

“I guess,” Simmons says. He moves to unclasp his chest piece, then freezes as Griff reaches to do the same to his shinguards. “What the hell?!” He swats Grif’s hands away.

“What?!” Grif says, sounding frustrated, “What’re you freaking out over now?”

Feeling slightly foolish, Simmons extends his leg back out from where he’d protectively retracted it towards his body. “I can undress myself, you know.”

“Wow,” Grif says, with deep sarcasm, “do you want a medal for that?”

“Screw you,” Simmons says, hurriedly moving to undo the rest of his armour without any further assistance. “There.” He drops the last piece of his armour onto his own pile.  It lands with a clink of finality. Hurriedly, he folds his arms across his chest in an effort to counteract the feeling of vulnerability being outside the armour brings.

“And the bodysuit,”Grif insists, pushing Simmons until he shuffles round so Grif can reach the zipper.

“This is definitely weird,” Simmons mutters, closing his eyes as he feels the metal of the zipper press against his back as Grif pulls it down.

“Aw, stop your complaining,” Grif says scornfully. He goes silent, and Simmons tenses, wonders if he’s staring at the odd mishmash of flesh and metal that is Simmons’ back the same way he’d stared at Grif’s. “Ah!” He sucks in a sudden breath at the not entirely unexpected touch.

“Wow, it really is cooler,” Grif says quietly, and Simmons can hear the marvel in his tone. He shivers as Grif runs his hand over the length of his back.

“Uh,” he coughs awkwardly, wondering how to tell Grif he can feel that, feel the way Grif’s fingers brush over the metal expanse of his shoulder wonderingly.

“Oh, dude,” Grif’s voice drops with realisation, “can you feel that?”

Simmons shrugs. “Sort of. It’s kinda weird, and it’s not the same, but… yeah.”

“Oh,” Grif says. He doesn’t move his hand.

This is definitely weird, Simmons thinks. Grif sighs, and then suddenly, his chest is pressed against the top of Simmons’ back, leaning heavily against him. _So weird_. “Grif…” he trails off, unsure what exactly to say.

“Shut up, Simmons. This isn’t fucking weird, okay? It’s not weird unless you make it weird, so just… .” Grif lets out a sigh, and Simmons feels it gust against his bare skin.

“Uh,” Simmons says, shifting a little.

“What did I just say?” Grif growls irritably into Simmons’ back, and wow, that is a weird sensation. “Shut the fuck up, okay. I’m trying to relax here, stop being so inconsiderate Simmons, jeez.”

“I was just going to say, if we’re doing this, can I at least get comfortable?”

“Huh,” Grif pulls back. “I thought you were going to keep freaking out. But that seems fair. Get comfy then," he says graciously.

“Gee, thanks,” Simmons says, rolling his eyes. Quickly, he shucks off the sleeves of his body suit, and pulls it down so it hangs around his waist like Grif’s. Then he pauses, uncertain. “Okay, now how are we going to do this?” He twists to look at Grif uncertainly. “Would it be easier if I was lying down, or…?”

“Do I need to draw you a diagram?” Grif asks sarcastically, before pushing him down onto the sand.

“That might actually be helpful,” Simmons says, but lets himself be pushed down.

“Nerd.” There’s the sound of sand shifting, and then Grif’s pressed against his back again, except this time the whole length of his body is laid against Simmons. Grif’s skin is warm against his own constantly cooled skin, and Simmons is surprised to find the warmth pleasant. The downside of being powered by Freon is that he’s always cool, always a couple of degrees below the level of sleepy warmth that’s ideal for naps. he understands it’s an advantage in a combat situation, to battle against the drowsiness that comes with not enough sleep and boring patrols, but sometimes he misses the warmth of his old, fully-human body, with all its drawbacks.

“This is actually pretty comfortable, he admits, body gradually growing less tense as he relaxes into Grif.

Grif snorts, “Speak for yourself. Why’d you have to be so goddamn bony, dude? It's like hugging a bag full of rocks.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t all come with our own layer of padding like you, fat-ass,” Simmons retorts. Grif doesn’t bother to respond to the familiar taunt, and they fall into a comfortable silence. When Grif’s arm settles around him, looping easily over his chest, Simmons can’t even bring himself to complain. It’s Grif’s left arm, his own arm, and Simmon’s is glad because the idea of being cuddled (there’s no other word for it, Jesus Christ, he’s _cuddling_ with Grif) by his own arm is distinctly creepy.  He should probably get up, he thinks sleepily, eyes falling shut, or at least reach for the manual… Sarge won’t be happy if he catches them sleeping on job…

 

“O-m-gee!”

A loud squeal of high-pitched glee goes cuts through Simmons like a bonesaw, jerking him into instant wary wakefulness. He scrambles into a sitting position, dislodging Grif, who just rolls over and continues gently snoring, and screws his eyes against the sunlight to try and make out the offender while wondering why his visor isn’t automatically adjusting to compensate for the brightness. Then he remembers he’s not wearing his helmet. Or his armour. Or much of anything really. Yelping, he reaches panic-stricken for his gun and helmet, not sure which one he needs more.

“Aw,” the voice complains, “and I only managed to get the one photo.”

“Donut?” Simmons asks, still disorientated from the rude wake-up. “Oh, jeez. You almost gave me a heart attack. What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?”

“Sneaking?” Donut gasps, indignant, “Moi? Never.You and Grif were asleep! And you both looked so cute, snuggled up like that, I just had to get a picture!”

“Snuggling?” Simmons splutters, face heating up. “We weren’t snuggling, Donut.” His face is definitely red, a brighter shade than Donut’s _lightish-red_. “Goddamn it, Donut. Don’t make things weird. This is all completely explainable.”

“Rightt,” Donut says, with polite skepticism. A pause, then, “So….?”

“Argh!” Simmons runs a hand through his hair. “Fine, fine. I’ll explain, just to clear up any confusion over why me and Grif were…”

“Snuggling?” Donut supplies helpfully.

“Yes! No. We were just…” he fumbles for the right words to explain what exactly they had been doing. “I was helping him cool down,” he says, aware of how lame the explanation sounds. “His a/c is broken, and since Sarge outfitted me with my own…”

“Right,” says Donut, sounding unconvinced. “Sure. You don’t need to make excuses, Simmons. I know how lonely it can get out here…” he sniffs, continues, “in fact I’m just hurt I wasn’t invited to join the cuddle pile!”

“It wasn’t -” Simmons says, dismayed.

“Everyone, shut the fuck up,” Grif says, voice muffled from where his face is squashed against the sand. His eyes are firmly closed, body still slack. If it wasn’t for him speaking, Simmons would be sure he was still asleep.

“But -” Simmons and Donut whine in unison.

“I said, shut up!” Grif says, still not opening his eyes. “Donut, go away. Simmons, get back down here.”

“Fine,” Donut pouts, “I see how it is. You two want to be alone together. Well, I’ll leave you alone to your snuggling!” With that, he tosses his head, and storms off.

“Wait,” Simmons calls after him weakly, “come back! I can explain.” But Donut’s gone, disappearing over the next sand dune. “Good going, asshole,” he says, nudging Grif in the shoulder, “now look what you’ve done.”

“Got Donut to leave?” Grif shrugs, “Honestly, I don’t see the problem here.”

“Well, yeah, but now he thinks we were…” Simmons trails off, flushing.

Grif raises his eyebrows at him and flashes him a lazy grin. “Aw, look at you. Getting all flustered. It’s kinda cute, in an unbelievably dorky way.”

“...” Simmons tries to process the fact that Grif just called him cute. “Oh my god,” he says worriedly, reaching to press his hand against Grif’s forehead, “did you actually get sunstroke?”

Grif narrows his eyes at Simmons and grabs his wrist. “You know, for a smart guy, you can be pretty stupid.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Simmons says, but he obediently lets himself be pulled back down.

“Dumb-ass,” Grif sighs, wrapping his arms back around Simmons and pulling him flush to his chest. He hooks his chin over Simmons’ shoulder. “Just shut up and let me sleep.”

“Wait,” Simmons says, slowly. “Is this your stupid idea of how to hit on people?!”

Grif doesn’t respond in words, but Simmons can feel the other man’s laughter rumble through his chest as he ducks his head to press his lips against the skin of Simmons’ shoulder.

"Oh," Simmons says, as everything falls into place.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
